This story has some triggering content. It's about Depression, suicide, grief, and a toxic, dysfunctional family. Please keep that in mind before you read it.

Comments are always appreciated. 

SOMETIMES IT HURTS TO BREATHE

I knew that something was wrong, very wrong, when I saw tears in his eyes. Steve never cried. Suddenly, I didn't want to hear what he had to say. It was a cold day, yet it was sunny, and I had to wonder how it could appear to be so pretty out when it was really just empty and numbing. I watched my breath as it froze in the air. I knew what Steve had to say before he walked up to me. I could see it in his eyes. Something had happened, and it was the kind of something that no one could fix.


Steve finally reached me. "It's Mark," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.


I shifted my weight from my right foot onto my left foot, feeling extremely awkward talking to my oldest brother, who I had not seen in three years. I'd been surprised when he had called me and asked me to meet him, but I'd agreed. There had been something in his voice that told me that I needed to see him. "What happened?" I asked. I already knew the answer.


"He shot himself. One shot. That was all it took."


"Is he dead?"


"Yes, Meg, he's gone."


I wanted to scream. I wanted to collapse into a fit of hysterical tears, to make it look like something out of a movie, but I couldn't do that. Instead, I just stood there, staring at Steve in silence.


Steve seemed unsure of what to do. Finally, he asked, "Meg, did you hear me? Mark's gone. There was nothing the doctors could do."


"When is the funeral?"


"Sunday." Steve studied me, most likely attempting to understand what could possibly be going through my mind in that moment.


"I'll have to pick up my black dress from the dry cleaners."


"Meg-"


"I have to tell Jessica that I won't be able to go to her party Saturday night. I want to be rested for Sunday."


"Meg, honey, please-"


"I should go home. I have an exam to study for."


"Meg, I know this is bothering you."


"I'm fine. Really. I need to study, or I'm going to get an F."


"Please don't shut me out. You know you can talk to me."


"I don't have anything to say. I need to go home and study, or I'll fail, and I can't afford to fail."


I was twenty-one years old when my brother Mark killed himself. He was sixteen. He and I had not been particularly close, but people always told us that we were a lot alike. Apparently, that was truer than I had realized, because when I was Mark's age, I had taken an overdose of aspirin. The only reason I was still alive was because I had a weak stomach, and I threw up almost immediately.


They say that Depression runs in the family. In my family, it comes from my mother's side. My mother's brother killed himself, and her sister was on Prozac for a while. On the surface, my mother liked to entertain the neighbors, and my father's business associates, but in truth, the only time my mother's smiles were genuine were when she was playing solitaire.


My father spent most of his time at work. He was what one might call a workaholic, and sometimes, he seemed to forget that he was our father, and not our boss.


After my suicide attempt, my mother had been angry with me, because she was worried about what the neighbors would think. My father had listened to the doctors at the hospital, who said that I needed to be in counseling, and had paid for me to see a professional. I had been on three different medications for Depression. When I was eighteen, I went away to college, and in treatment there, I began taking Celexa. It seemed to be working well. I hadn't meant to leave my family behind, at least not on a conscious level, but I had somehow lost contact with everyone except my youngest sister, Lindsey. She was twelve, and she called me every week. Steve was four years older than I. He lived in our parents' basement, where he spent most of his time playing music with his band and getting high. Dani, my other sister, was fifteen. She refused to speak to me after I left home. Dani was convinced that I had abandoned her. 


Mark had not called me, most likely because it wasn't "cool" to call your family members for no reason other than to talk. Now, I found myself wishing that I had made the first move and called him. I picked up my black dress from the drycleaners, told Jessica I would be unable to attend her party, and attempted to study for the exam I had to take on Monday. The studying did not work, so I turned on the television to distract myself.


It's strange how the world works. It seemed like everything on television was about death, or people named Mark, or loss, or guns, or anything else I could connect, however abstractly, to my brother. At the same time, even though Mark was still dead, the world went on living, and for...